Bucky Barnes, Private Investigator
by Songbird's Tune
Summary: What if Bucky escapes first – before they awaken Steve? Before Thor? Before the Avengers? Before everything begins and everything falls apart? He's forging sanity and pretending he's not a ninety something former brainwashed assassin.
1. Bucky B, Off Screen House Intruder: a

This is a six part series, each individually divided into three parts. It's born of a sudden 'what if Bucky managed to leave HYDRA first - before Steve was found in the ice?' what would he do? How would he cope? Well, here's a possible answer, set five years after he broke free ...

* * *

 **Bucky Barnes, Off Screen House Intruder**

 **a**

He sat on the fire escape and lent against the cold bricks behind him. In the apartment opposite, the lights were out and the blinds down.

For a moment, he felt vaguely resentful towards Mrs Jessica Albright. Four nights observing her and nothing. Her husband thought she was guilty of an affair, but so far? So far she had been slumped before her computer (Thursday), danced to music (Friday), sobbed whilst watching a television show (Saturday) and gone straight to bed (that night).

The only thing she was guilty of was a bad set of lungs and an ability to go through three boxes of tissues. (Which was practically an achievement if you thought about it.)

He wasn't even going to count all the mundane websites she browsed. Health blogs, entertainment sites and online shops where her wish list was longer and larger than the contents of her bank account.

His cell vibrated. The screen cast a dim glow on his face. Janice was calling. With a glance at the dark windows opposite and a sharp sigh, he put the cell to his ear.

Her voice always reminded him of a serrated knife - sharp and grating. "Bucky. Ferguson has paid. We'll break even this month."

Over the road, the streetlight was flickering. A cat slunk through the shadows and a tired pizza delivery bike zoomed over the pothole ridden street. Jessica Albright's window stayed exactly as it was - dark.

(He wanted to pound on her door and demand evidence of infidelity, if only so he could escape this cramped little perch. "Ma'am, are you cheating on your husband?" he imagined asking her. "Would you mind telling him for me? Consider tossing in a raise?" Yeah. That would go down about as well as a meat buffet in a vegetarian restaurant.)

Janice's cutting voice spoke in his ear: "You don't have to finish this job."

True. But: "He's paying well."

There was a pause. And then: "You hate these jobs."

How did she know that? He thought he treated all his cases with the same impartiality.

"You asked me if I wanted to come with you - it's like a sign of the apocalypse."

True - he liked silence. And Janice was not that. The power of quiet, untroubled thoughts without fetter was potent. He would never get used to it. That and the fear that someone was ever looking over his shoulder. Into his mind. Soul. Being. Whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

"Ha! Is that silence I hear? You're not even _pretending_ to be polite." There was a snort of disgust. "Why do I put up with you?"

"There's the wage," Bucky muttered. "She's turned her light on." His words seemed to slip out from between his lips and fall far, far below. Bouncing on the street. Perhaps something would happen now. (A window thrown open, a sign saying: 'Why yes, my husband's suspicions _are_ correct – I'll mail you the evidence. Now do go to a more comfortable spot.')

"And? What if she needs to pee? She's not going to grope her way there in the dark, you know. Maybe her husband is a paranoid chauvinist, insecure because his job takes him away from his wife's side."

"Lights out."

"That was quick. She _so_ needed to pee. But if it was _that_ quick, maybe she wanted to find her cell charger? Hmm. But why didn't she _use_ her cell phone's light? Or perhaps it was out of battery? What think you, Holmes, old chap?"

Bucky cast a glance - it wasn't frustrated, but rather a little impatient - towards the night sky, where the stars smiled down behind a thin cloud. "Janice ..."

"Yeah, yeah. Twirl my lady moustache. Mind my own business. Are you going to admit you're bored out of your mind and wanted my huge butt beside you?"

Bucky didn't respond. (Besides, his seat was far too small for the both of them.) He watched a shadowed figure approach the door to the apartments and- he checked through his binoculars- yes. Ring number twenty's door bell.

In his ear, Janice was still talking. "... at least for sheer entertainment value. So go back to wherever it is you live, get some rest and I'll find you someone who's skipped bail. In the morning though. Heck - I can't remember the last time you went home."

He preferred not to go; he liked the idea of it too much and so hated going back to it. It was the principle of the thing; it was far too secure. Life held no security. Everything was sand; easy to wash away with the harsh tide of fate.

He ran a cold hand over his unshaved face.

 _Getting poetic in your old age, Buck?_ The voice was as warm and friendly as it ever was in life.

Across the street, Jessica's bedroom light was switched on and a second later, the stranger was stepping off the street and through the door.

"She's got company," he intoned – into the phone. (He didn't, as a rule, talk to the voice in his head. Well. Perhaps he did. Sometimes. All the time. Did it matter?) "Goodnight."

Janice launched into a protest before he could hang up:

"Wait! You can't just do that, man. Tell me - is he tall, dark and handsome? They usually are. Unless they're accountants and then they look like road kill or melted bread dough all trussed up in a suit. I bet he's a relative of hers. Long lost." She grew a little panicked. "Go in and shake her, Bucky - let her know that she's letting the team down. Dang it. I hate this. Goodnight."

The phone clicked off abruptly and Bucky pocketed it without a single ruffle in the placid sea of his temper.

 _See? Right there? Poets would be envious of you, Buck._

Janice often insisted that he needed therapy ('sometimes I think you're sane and then bam! I know you're really mucked up') but he'd often stopped himself from telling her the same. Truth was a powerful thing. If you were wise, you tried to avoid it. (Avoid the mirrors, or at least, the clean ones.) Janice did a grand job of that – she either ate them away or threw all the truth she didn't want or the problems she couldn't face at _him_. As if he needed any more.

No. It was better not to think of-

Of-

He was _stronger_ than that.

He.

Was.

Stronger.

Breathing was hard. He tried to grip the metal bars of the fire escape to ease the panic, but his grip was too tight; he could hear the metal groaning as his hand warped its shape.

(Cons of having a metal arm? Too many to count.)

He needed to keep moving. Log the data. Take check of his surroundings. Text Janice to make sure she'd turned the single hidden camera off from its power saving option. (They were low budget. Always had been.)

His phone vibrated again. _Camera on,_ the text said. _Sitting edge of vision._

More waiting then. He could go home after this. The thought wasn't inviting. Perhaps he would go to his office instead. Sleep with his head pillowed on paperwork. His phone vibrated again: _Goin over papers. Like slaughtered forests amount of papers._

Papers? He frowned at the apartment. Papers?

Another vibration: _Thumb is aching. She's marking something with a pen. Red. Marking?  
_

Bucky rubbed his face and bit back a sigh.

He didn't bother stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Janice kept typing away. ( _Arguing. He's real mad.)_

Somewhere down the street, a car trundled to a stop and headlights dimmed. A door was slammed and someone screamed an insult.

( _Thrown a book him._ )

Bucky tried to switch position. His back was aching. Somewhere in the distant fog of his brain, someone laughed at him, diagnosed arthritis and suggested a hot water bottle. Bucky gave a huff of laughter and the cloud of his breath rushed out like an exhaust pipe's smoke.

( _Ha. Doused him w/ water. Vase.)_

He could be needed, he supposed. Save the innocent Jessica's life and all that jazz. Not his deal if he thought about it. Still, she represented a bill and he didn't want to just _break even_ that month.

( _Down w/ the patriarchy! He's stormed out.)_

Once, a long time ago, he'd found Janice's language bewildering. He'd been used to other things – words spat in his face. Words slipping into his brain until they felt his own. Words that he'd been told to ignore; to block his ears to.

And then … then he had the freedom of words. And then he meet Janice.

He still didn't understand some of what she spouted, but he knew enough to nod. Nodding meant that a lecture – a long one, peppered with references that he didn't understand - was escaped.

He pulled himself into a crouch. Easing his metal hand away from the bent metal bar. Mindlessly, he bent it back into shape as he waited.

( _She's crying. Flopped onto bed. 8* 4 drama. 10* 4 effort_.)

Bucky slipped the phone into his pocket. He didn't need to know anything else about Jessica Albright just at that moment. Down the fire escape. Onto the ground, sidestepping a beer bottle and avoiding a cat curled up behind a trash can. Its eyes flicked up at him, seeming to glow. He gave it a sharp nod and moved away.

He stood in the shadows and waited. Calmly. Patiently. Focused.

It was these moments he lived for. When everything melted away and left him with one simple goal. (The key word was 'simple'. When your life was complicated, you tended to long for things just out of reach. In his case: simplicity.)

Did he feel guilt? He often wondered if he _should_ feel guilt for what he did. (Not what he had done in the past – avoidance, remember? - but what he did _now_.) But no. He couldn't find it in himself to feel guilty. The ability to do so had drained away a long time ago.

He liked to pretend he could though.

It made him feel normal.

Besides, he had bills to pay and if he could find _something_ to give to Jessica's husband – something that was not infidelity, but a lie, a deceit, a secret … yes. That would do it. Might get a raise for it. Take Janice out for something to eat. (Or bring her takeaway; she hated going out into the big bad world, didn't she?)

He was a Private Investigator. The misfortunes and idiotic deeds of others paid for a roof over his head and clothing on his back.

It could be worse - bank robbery. Fraud. Murder.

Warm reassurance, as if someone had thrown an arm over his shoulder: _No need for that, Buck. You're doin' just fine._

Thanks for that, he thought. Punk.

 _Back at'cha. Jerk._

The apartment door was opened. And Bucky was ready; reality snapping into one clear focus.

* * *

Thoughts?


	2. Bucky B, Off Screen House Intruder: b

**b**

He woke to the alarm clock's continuous beeping. Why he even _had_ an alarm clock still bewildered him. (And why Janice decided he needed one out of the blue was an even greater mystery. He turned up to the office on time, didn't he? Or did he?)

He sat up and the bed groaned. Two legs swung over the side. One met and overturned a whiskey bottle. It landed on its side with a dull clunk. He looked at the empty brown glass, puzzled. Did he drink it all last night?

It wasn't a habit, but he did it from time to time; when sleep refused to come and the silence formed faces and voices that accused and reminded, it helped. (Sometimes.) Running a hand over his unshaved chin, he stood up, ignoring the bottle.

At least he had slept last night; he must have done. And better – he couldn't remember dreaming. He glanced at the wall. Its dent was larger. A glance at his fist.

Metal? Undamaged.

Flesh and bone? Crusted blood sprinkled with a spattering of plaster.

Bucky told himself that it didn't matter. He couldn't remember the dream. 'Count your blessings,' said a chaplain. (He couldn't remember his face, or even where or when he met the man. He only recalled the voice, which was cold, and the words, which were warm.)

The alarm clock was still belting out its tune and Bucky had to force himself not to slam a metal fist down on it. It would stop then. Never sound again.

But he didn't like ending things, these days. The concept of 'this has ended and there will never be anything more' disturbed him. _He_ didn't end. Though everyone else did, of course. (He didn't like to think of that. Ignorance was bliss. Bliss in its falsest form, true, but even that was better than nothing at all.)

With a single push of a button, the alarm clock was silenced. His jeans and t-shirt (stinking worse than a frightened skunk; he needed to do laundry) were pulled on.

Jacket – check. Shoes – check. Breakfast … he'd get something somewhere. Hunger was a state he was familiar with. He never seemed to notice it these days.

Bucky frowned as he flung the door open, shutting it behind him. Perhaps he _should_ be bothered by hunger. Perhaps he _ought_ to fetch that stale bagel from the cupboard and wash it down with coffee. (And whiskey. Did he even have any of that left?) Perhaps that was what an ordinary person would do. And by 'ordinary' he meant someone who wasn't him.

Fine.

He'd get something on the way to the office.

 _Y'know, Bucky, sometimes you overthink things._

Shut up, Steve.

 _Eat. Don't eat. The choice is yours._

He stalked down the hall, passed doors more battered than his own. Then out into the street. A blast of polluted air hit his lungs. Beside a lamp post, a figure looking worse for wear puffed on a cigarette as if he were the last steam train and this was his final hurrah.

 _Personally,_ said Steve with irritating cheerfulness, _I'd eat. Keep up strength to track down last night's bad guy._

Bucky buried his hands in his jacket pockets. _No one calls them bad guys_ , he muttered to Steve's ghost as he strode down the street. He had a motorbike last month. Crashed it because he was a wuss and couldn't stop his flashbacks. Now he was forced to use public transport or his own legs.

Five years. You'd think someone would improve a little after five years.

Did he?

No. He didn't.

He wouldn't drive again. Promised himself right then and there whilst the blood dripped from his forehead and he extracted himself from the crumpled trash can.

A jogger whisked by, ear plugs in, fancy gear on, sweat glistening. Bucky reckoned that he could run three times as fast.

No.

 _Four._

Run so swiftly that these grim apartment blocks would leak into the inner city's grim skyscrapers in no time. He chose this grim place, where dirt and hardship and attempts at forgetting mixed together in a dull, mouldering soup.

If he had wanted to withdraw from the world, a log cabin would have been better. He'd tried it too: a year or two out in the wilderness where only God could see him. What did he accomplish? Sanity? Nope. Far be it from him to do something sensible.

He'd gone a little overboard on the 'insanity thing'. He couldn't remember half the time he spent up in the Rockies. He did wrestle with the wildlife though – he remembered that. Seemed kinda ridiculous when he thought about it. He'd woken up coated in blood and had actually _wept_ like a little kid because it wasn't _someone_ he'd killed but _something_.

After that, he'd moved about. Drifted about. Found a place. This non-descript city in America suited him. It was interchangeable with a hundred others – and better, he had no history here.

He hated history. Avoided it.

(He had a long list of things he hated; had started it the moment he realised that _Bucky Barnes_ was someone and worse – it was him. Second thing on the list? Hydra.)

His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket.

As always, Janice spoke first: "Where were you?"

(Third? Two words: Mission Report.)

"I'm getting breakfast. Want a bagel?"

"Come _on,_ Bucky. What happened? You didn't give me a debrief or whatever."

A cyclist flashed by and a taxi honked its angry horn. Bucky stepped into a bakery and was met with the smell of freshly made bread. Through the glass counter, he pointed to a bagel coated with cinnamon and slapped the money down without saying a word.

In his ear, however, Janice had plenty to say: "You can't keep going off grid, dude. I _needed_ to know where you were. You weren't answering your phone, you didn't text, you didn't call and you didn't even break into my apartment and leave a box of oddly creepy chocolates."

A business man in cheap suit rushed past him. Bucky bit into his bagel. It was warm. Sweet. He had been used to bland things put into his mouth; full of the necessary nutrients but lacking in taste. Oh, and then there was that none-edible thing placed into his mouth just before they …

No. He swallowed. Took another bite.

Life seemed full of unfinished sentences. Thoughts he couldn't allow himself to complete.

(Fourth: teeth guards, and what they heralded.)

"Not that you've ever _given_ me chocolates." A pause, followed by a rush of words: "In a purely platonic way, mind you. But I've been watching this TV show about stalkers and one of 'em looked so much like you that- wait. What was I asking you?"

Bucky supplied the answer through a mouthful of bagel: "Wanting to know where I was."

(Fifth: a throat – his own - hoarse from screaming.)

"Yeah. That. Did you mention a bagel? No. _No._ Where _were_ you?"

Bucky made her wait until the bagel was eaten and its paper was tossed into the trash. (Janice complained – loudly. Bucky didn't think she had a drop of patience in her entire body.)

"Following Jessica Albright's lover."

There was a spluttering sound from the other end of the phone. Bucky took the next left and passed down Sunrise Avenue _._

"She was … she had … ? Dang it, Bucky – you see, this is the reason I _hate_ this job. Just when your faith in humanity is restored by a Hallmark Channel special, what does our wonderful race do? Nay – change the question – what does the _sisterhood_ do?"

The sun peered through the thick clouds and, bothered by the dismal sight beneath it, retreated into comfortable obscurity. Bucky wished he could do the same. Or perhaps he had.

( _The art of remaining invisible,_ he remembered lecturing himself in one of those first lucid moments, _was to live in plain sight, acting as if you belonged there._ )

"Maybe Mr Albright beat her? Huh. Maybe this was a marriage she was forced into. Arranged. Like on TV … but worse. Hmm. Do we have a lead here?"

He stepped down a side alley where a lamp hung over a door and flickered in panic.

"He wasn't her lover," he corrected himself, because Janice upset meant her seating her ponderous form on the edge of his desk giving him a lecture on the Woes of Mankind beginning with The Toilet Seat Was Not Down and ending with a financial crisis of some kind. (' _Men are greedy,_ ' she'd say in her grating voice. ' _And so arrogant I want to skin them and feed them to rabid sharks. Wait. Can sharks become rabid when they're swimming in all that water?'_ **)**

He held the phone away from his ear as she shrieked and he unlocked the door. It wasn't locked in the conventional sense, but it required a careful push to the left and then a yank upwards. He'd taken it off its hinges four times before he mastered the trick.

Janice didn't use this side door; she used the front and trooped passed the shifty insurance offices where the secretary chewed gum and used paperwork as hamster bedding. Found it amusing, for some reason.

"Why didn't you say so, Bucky? Man _alive_ , I – legit – lost my faith humanity for a moment there. Gosh darn it, don't leave me hanging off a cliff, next time. Mmkay? Spoilers are _appreciated_ in this circumstance."

Up a creaky flight of stairs, down the hall, skip through the maintenance closet and out the other side and – there. The door was old and its handle worn, but the lettering on the glass stated clearly, in bold letters:

 **Barnes & Rogers, Private Investigators**

Janice said that it looked tacky and demanded to know why _her_ surname wasn't there. Bucky thought that maybe, once – a very long time ago – a kid dreamt briefly of being a Private Eye; a detective with a fedora hat and a Chicago drawl. He wasn't sure who the kid was (Steve or him), but the lettering stayed as it was. A memorial to a lost friend and an abandoned dream.

It was really crummy memorial – far worse than whatever exhibit they had at the Smithsonian. But he thought that Steve wouldn't mind it; would find it funny.

 _Sure do, buddy. Sure do._

See? His deceased friend agreed with him.

"So …" drawled out Janice. "When _are_ you coming into work? I want explanations, dude. With appendixes, cross-references and _everything_."

He opened the door and there she was, her body squeezed into a chair behind a desk that would collapsed if you so much as coughed in its direction.

Closing the door, he leant against it, arms folded.

"Well!" said Janice, eyebrows raised.

Her face always reminded him of a little puppy's, except with more hair on top, less on her cheeks and eyes that could burn with the fiery pits of hell.

"She's writing a biography. He's helping. She doesn't like him. He doesn't like what she writes."

Janice looked nonplussed. "Huh."

"Lots of red on the manuscript," Bucky felt compelled to explain. He really hated this part – the 'talking-over-what-had-happened-on-the-case' part. Reminded him too much of … of …

(Period. Full stop. A sentence was completed when _you_ chose to end it.)

He clenched his jaw and Janice lent forward, plucking up a jar and shoving it over a pile of paperwork and onto the edge of the desk.

"I didn't swear," he muttered, with a wearied glare.

"You were thinking it."

Five dollars were stuffed into the jar. Janice's eyebrows were raised to dizzying heights. "What the heck were you _thinking_?"

"I'd say it …" said Bucky, walking toward his office. He opened the door, rested a hand on the doorframe. (Did he put his gloves on? A glance. Yes, he did.) "… but it would cost me three more dollars."

Janice followed him, watching him as he seated himself behind his desk and switched his ancient computer on. The monitor flickered and fan whirred in protest.

"So …" she clicked finger nails painted a variety of colours on the door frame. "… who's biography?"

"See, now that's the interesting part." Bucky banged the side of the monitor. Looked up. Allowed a small smile to twitch at his lips. Was about to open his mouth to speak but before he could, Janice happened.

"What? Oh come _on_. Only talent shows have the silence before so so's announced as the loser."

"You are-"

"Beautiful beyond belief? Incredibly talented? Wonderfully kind to stoop to working for you? Saint-like in my loyalty? All of the above?"

It amazed Bucky that Janice could rattle off so many _words_ in one breath.

"Your silence is telling," she said crisply in that sharp voice of hers, fingers tapping a faster beat. "So … tell me."

Bucky wished he'd taken a cup of coffee before coming in.

"Dude … the suspense is _killing_ me. Woman up and _dish_."

Make that three cups of coffee.

Bucky looked at the ceiling with its whining fan and cream paintwork. Calming thoughts, he told himself. Just breathe. Leaping out of the window isn't advisable.

 _Have to agree with you there, Buck._

"He was a prominent CIA agent."

There. The words were out. There was a moment's silence. Disbelief rippled across her face. It didn't last for very long and was replaced with awe that, in turn, collapsed in front of a wave of fear.

She was always a little paranoid. (On _good_ days.) Give her a math test and she'd say the Illuminati were behind it. ('The triangles! I kid you _not_.') She feared the government which she felt was large and looming and far too Big Brother-ish. ('They could be watching us _right now_. Quick! Pull a face. Dang it, _that_ will get us all killed.') Bucky was glad he'd kept his arm hidden. What she'd make of _that_ was too terrible to think about.

Janice began to lecture, back straight, arms to the sides, bosom heaving with indignation. Bucky often wondered if she was even aware of where in the conversational map she was headed when she opened her mouth.

He began to assemble the facts from last night. Something was very odd there – he wasn't sure what, but he knew that something was off.

Above him, the ceiling fan whined and his computer announced the need for an update and a restart. And Janice was still talking.

* * *

Thoughts?


	3. Bucky B, Off Screen House Intruder: c

**c**

Bucky didn't remember _much_ of the previous night. The bare facts – the ones he gave to Janice in a bland voice – were thus:

1\. The man was named John Kastle

2\. His house was easy to break into. (Bucky didn't mention that this made him take even _more_ precautions. Meticulous ones.)

3\. There were numerous notes that seemed to _discredit_ Mrs Albright's sources. (Odd for someone who was supposed to be helping her.)

4\. His cupboards were bare

"Good point with that last one," said Janice with a sharp nod; she'd finally exhausted her lecturing abilities and had actually _listened._ "Always suspicious. Shady as anything." She shook her head. Her black mane shuddered. "If a man can't stock his cupboards … are you sure they were bare?"

"Yes."

"Wait an everliving moment," Janice stalked to his desk and sat down. Bucky eyed the wood. Did he just hear it groan? "If you followed Shady Dude _home_ and broke _in_ to it … how did he not notice? I mean, _I_ would notice if an intruder came and looked in my cupboards."

(If only she knew … )

"He was in the shower."

Janice's face was unimpressed. "Not cool, my friend. Not. Cool. What if he had heard you and had come charging out in his birthday suit? Hmm. Did you ever think of that?"

As a matter of fact … John Kastle _had_ finished with the shower whilst Bucky was in his house. Bucky had retired to a spider-like position at the end of the shadowed hall, hovering right above John's bedroom. Arms pushing either wall, body tensed.

Ghost Steve had been chuckling. Bucky had been impatient, waiting for the moment he could drop and leave.

But then John Kastle had decided he needed to shave. With the door open. Bucky had waited, tucking away impatience and filing through facts and possibilities in his mind whilst the smell of aftershave and an off-key rendition of a song about roaring was belted out.

No wonder he'd needed whiskey afterwards.

"Bucky? Who was the CIA agent?"

Pulled out of his memories (the novelty of _that_ thought made him want to be still and savour it. He had memories. Miracles happen) Bucky blinked up at her.

"The director's assistant. Undercover, double agent during World War Two."

The look on Janice's face was almost comical. "World War _Two_. Oh come _on_. I thought you meant 'we're all gonna die because this information is confidential and men in suites will come knocking if we even _think_ the name'. That was years ago. Years and years."

Yeah. Years and years.

"I'm gonna call Albright," Bucky said.

"Though I love a happy ever after, isn't that jumping the gun a bit? Don't you need a little more evidence?"

"No. I don't. Gut instinct. I'll make it persuasive."

"Whatever," said Janice, standing up. The desk let out a relived sigh. "You need to put a dollar in the swear jar, by the way. Breaking and entering, though useful for business, is illegal as anything."

"Low on rent?" Bucky questioned.

Janice slammed the door behind her.

Silence in his office. The single window with its marvellous view of a wall and a drain pipe cast dull light onto the patch of carpet before his desk.

Bucky picked up the phone. Left a hurried message on Albright's phone. ('Your wife spends too much time online, reads romance novels and is writing a biography with the help of a man who doesn't want her to – nothing to worry about. She hates him. Hire a defence lawyer, cause she's gonna kill him soon.')

And after that, when the phone was in its grimy cradle and tuneless whistling could be heard from Janice, Bucky crossed to the door, locked it, crawled under his desk and clenched his teeth.

'Years and years,' said Janice. This flashback lasted fourteen minutes. 'Years and years' echoed around and around his head like a chant. Strange how things like that could set him off.

 _It was longer than the last one,_ said Steve in the frantic humming of his brain.

Shut up, thought Bucky, leaning his head against the desk. You're dead. Let me be.

 _I'm always be here, Buck._

He plunged his hands into his hair. "Like hell you are," he muttered. "You're dead."

Silence. Steve didn't respond to that. Instead Bucky recalled a promise, made long ago: I'm with you till the end of the line.

"Should have told me you meant a haunting."

Somewhere, someone was talking to Janice. His mind logged the details absently. Time slipped by, Bucky didn't notice its passing. Instead, he focused on looking at the grain of wood, following its path. He thought of John Kastle and the strangeness of his research notes. He did this and pretended that everything was fine; that his hand wasn't trembling and his face wasn't dripping with sweat.

 _Breathe, Buck. Just breathe._

"Bucky!" There was a pounding at his office door. Startled, Bucky jerked backwards and his head thumped the desk. Stars – he saw them. Vivid and colourful and announcing with a glorious ache that he was to have a throbbing head for _at least_ ten minutes.

It took a moment to settle himself.

"Bucky!"

Sometimes he could tolerate Janice, even find himself liking her. Other times he wanted to throw her out of the window. (This was one of those times.)

Bucky placed his right hand on the edge of his desk and hauled himself up and into his chair. It squeaked in protest. Wiping his forehead, he stood, unlocked the door.

"So. Prepare yourself for a shock."

Bucky stared at her. She was breathing at an abnormal rate (excitement), her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled.

"I'm prepared," he said. His voice sounded bland – it always seemed to be.

"Scene one, enter character b from door one." Janice made dramatic gestures with her hands, drawing herself up to greater height and sucking in her stomach. It was a considerable feat. "You _are_ Private Investigators, aren't you?" she said in a higher pitched tone, broadening her accent.

Bucky felt his eyebrows twitch.

Her voice fell to its normal grating and Janice let herself slump. "Yes. Who are _you_? Character A – A for Absolutely Excellent, if you're wondering-"

"I'm not."

"Zip it." Janice cleared her throat. "Character A expresses polite interest in potential client. Character B is snooty miss and tips her nose up. Like this." Buck was given an excellent view of her nostrils. "I suspect my husband is having-" there was a dramatic pause "-an affair."

Bucky rubbed his face. Another one? Really? Didn't the people of this city have better things to do?

"Swear jar," ordered the budding thespian standing before him. She assumed her previous posture. "I need to _know_. The. Truth."

Bucky's hand ( _gloved_ , of course) paused. "Did she really say it like that?"

"I love him," said Janice with determination.

"I don't have the time for this," Bucky muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Janice's bosom was heaving and her arms were spread out before her. "He has … abandoned me! To the wild world! To the unkind eyes of humanity! To the cruel fate of the lonely woman!"

"What? Like you?"

Janice's control snapped. A hand was instantly propped on her hip. Her glare would have cheerfully bored into his skull. "If you're going to be this way you can go home to whatever park bench you live on." A pause. "Or under."

Strange. If her words were attempting to be as sharp as her voice it wasn't working. He had armour. Years of words. A clear, monotonous drone that went _on_ and _on_ until-

He wasn't breathing again. Janice was staring, eyebrows arched.

"You're quoting from a romance novel," he said while his chest _hurt_ and _burned_ and his legs begged to run and run and never stop running.

 _It's okay, Bucky_.

Shut. Up.

Nothing's okay.

I can't _breathe_.

"There's nothing wrong with embellishment," announced Janice. "Nothing at all. And if you're not willing to _listen-_ "

He stood suddenly, launching upwards. The chair clattered backwards and Janice's jaw dropped.

"I'm going. I'm leaving. I'm out. I don't want to listen. Shut up." The words, mingled with expletives, streamed out of his mouth and the only way he could bring them to a halt was to stumble around Janice and out of the door.

She didn't try to stop him.

Outside, the sky was spitting rain and the roads were clogged with cars. He buried his hands in his pockets and walked. He didn't know where to.

Ghosts haunted his steps. Drenched into his skin along with the rain. Into his bones.

 _Hey._

"Not now, Steve," Bucky muttered, his head tucked downwards.

 _It's okay, Buck._

It was stupid, but he pretended – just for a moment, nothing more – that he had someone walking beside him with sure strides. Taller than him, wider than him, braver than him. He used to resent it sometimes. He didn't now.

But then a woman stumbled, laden with shopping bags. He reached to help her and glanced over his shoulder.

There was no one there.

A mumbled thanks drifted after him as he walked onwards. The rain grew steadily worse. It was enraged. Bucky took refuge in a doorway to a closed drugstore. The windows were barred and colourful with graffiti.

He watched the rain and it was only the cough that alerted him to the boy at his feet.

"You're crowding me out," said the kid. Blonde hair. Skinny as a rake. Clothes too old and too big.

"Better than being out in the rain."

"For _you_ ," said the boy and he looked upwards. Bucky's eyes clashed with a sky blue. Yeah. He wanted to run. Away. Didn't bother. He was haunted today, it seemed.

Resigned, he fell to a crouch. The boy didn't bother to flinch back, but stared. Big blue eyes out of a slim face.

"Got problems?" Bucky asked.

"Guess I have now."

"Name's Bucky."

"Good for you."

The rain fell down and down. Bucky wondered if the clouds ever grew breathless with it all.

He didn't look at the boy. "I'm a PI."

"And I'm a strudel."

Kid has a sense of humour. "Private Investigator."

"Strudel."

"That your name?"

No response.

"If you need help-"

"No, thanks. Fine as I am."

He tried again. "There's a building off _Sunrise Ave_. You'll find your way in."

"I'm good, thanks."

The rain thundered down. Someone ran past, umbrella held firmly over their head.

"If you need a roof, it's there. Building's old. Full of places no one can find you."

No response. Again.

Bucky didn't bother to glance at his companion, but dug into his pocket. All the change he had – he shoved it all to the boy and stood, striding out into the rain before Strudel could protest.

 _You paying ghosts off now, Bucky?_

The rain fell and Bucky didn't care. He walked in it, dared it to soak him.

"You're wet," said Janice when he entered the office. She was eating. The smell of pizza was hung heavily in the air. "And you owe the swear jar _big time_."

"Haven't any change. Who was she?"

Janice paused mid-chew. She eyed him and her eyes flickered. Bucky reckoned she'd apologise soon. Not with words, but with deeds; there were three more slices of pizza left over.

"Get dry. Have some pizza."

There. An apology in Italian.

"Thanks. I will. Who was she?"

"Jessica Albright."

Bucky rubbed his face, feeling the cool water droplets dribble off his bare hand. He gave a sigh, and tripping after it, a weary expletive.

 _Language,_ said Ghost Steve.

"Swear jar," said Janice.

* * *

Thoughts?


End file.
